Strangers On A Street
by Hekate1308
Summary: Where two strangers kept each other company, and maybe gave each other hope, late on Christmas Day. Post-Reichenbach and 9x03.


**Author's note: Here, have two of my favourite characters meet on Christmas Day. Post-Reichenbach and 9x03.**

**I don't own anything, please review.**

They met on the twenty-fifth on December, at 4.55 pm.

Perhaps it shouldn't be called a meeting per se, because Sherlock certainly had no intent to talk to the homeless man, and firmly believed that he hadn't noticed him, for the simple reason that Sherlock didn't want to be noticed.

Especially not while he was tracking down a supplier who would thankfully lead him to the man he was looking for, the man who had coordinated this part of the web when Moriarty had been alive and had since his death taken over.

His focus on following the drug dealer might well explain why he didn't see the man until he ran into him.

Sherlock would later find he couldn't say whether he had bumped into the man or the man into him.

Either way, the stranger couldn't have looked more confused.

Sherlock felt the same; after all, he, the stranger and the drug dealer were the only people who were walking down a rather wide street, and that, if any of them had paid attention, they wouldn't have run into each other to begin with, which meant that this man must be even more distracted than the consulting detective –

He was smaller than Sherlock (although still taller than John, his brain supplied, no matter how he fought against it) and had black hair. He was homeless – _clothes haven't been washed for a few weeks now, but they are relatively new – he was somewhere he was cared for – no, where someone cared for him. Now, though, he is alone, shivering, doesn't own more than the clothes on his back. Wherever he was, someone threw him out. _

Sherlock looked up to meet the man's eyes and was slightly taken aback.

He had never seen eyes that blue, and he had done many experiments involving eyeballs (John always hated to find them – no, he couldn't think about that now).

He continued his deductions.

_Scared – or is it concerned? Doesn't like talking to strangers. Doesn't like looking at strangers. Yet he has relatively new clothes, which he couldn't have paid for – he hasn't had a job for a long time... They were bought by someone he trusted, then. Most likely the one who took him in. If he's alone and scared now – _

_That must have been the person to throw him out._

Something was odd about the stranger.

Normally, even if someone had become homeless years ago, there was a sign, evidence of what they had been before. Proud fathers, beloved daughters, happy spouses.

But, other that he was homeless and had been thrown into the street by someone he'd trusted –

Sherlock couldn't deduce anything about the blue-eyed man.

It scared him, more than he cared to admit.

Because, if he was losing his ability to deduce anything about anyone now, when it was more important than it had ever been –

He might never return home.

_Home. _How he'd scoffed at the word once upon a time. Now, all he could see was a flat in the heart of London, Mrs. Hudson's tea, John's jumpers.

He swallowed the lump on his throat and realized that the other man was still staring at him, instead of having murmured an excuse and hurried away, as the members of his homeless network usually did when they ran into someone.

Instead, he had staid, patiently allowing Sherlock to deduce him, the two caught in a moment on this Christmas Day, right after sunset, just when it had started to snow.

Sherlock suddenly remembered that he was supposed to follow the drug dealer, and had to bite back a curse when he realized he'd disappeared. Disappointment flooded through him, disappointment and anger at himself.

He was trying to destroy Moriarty's web so he could get home. And yet here he was, staring at and deducing a stranger.

He told himself it had nothing to do with the fact that the man was the first to look at him like he mattered for the first time in months. He had been used to that feeling – when J –

No, he wasn't thinking about London. He wasn't thinking about –

The stranger cleared his throat.

"Hello" he said, in a surprisingly deep voice, completely unfazed by the fact that they had just been staring at each other for minutes, completely alone in this city full of living, breathing, celebrating people.

"Hello" Sherlock answered, because since his target had escaped (for now, he told himself, for now) it didn't make any difference if he talked to the man or not. Although he would prefer to get back to his motel and catch a few hours of sleep sooner rather than later. He hadn't allowed himself any rest in the last six days.

"I am sorry" the man explained, "I wasn't paying attention. I was looking at the sky. Snow is rather beautiful, is it not?"

Sherlock nodded, for once speechless.

"It is rather cold, of course" the other continued, "but I suppose that is to be expected when one doesn't have a home".

He stared at the consulting detective like he knew, and Sherlock had to remember that the man was clearly talking about himself.

He frowned, and the stranger picked up on it.

"I have made you uncomfortable. My apolo – "

"No, it's fine" Sherlock interrupted because it was. He knew what it meant to speak the truth and see others react strangely; simply because one hadn't obeyed the rules society considered important when partaking in conversations.

If he had met this man when he was still – if he had met this man before, he would have thought their talk refreshing.

"I am Castiel" he suddenly announced, as if it was the logical continuation of their conversation, and Sherlock found a file in his mind palace that told him it was the name of the Angel of the Thursday before replying, "Gregory".

Now it was Castiel's turn to frown.

"I have – I had a friend who taught me how people look when they are lying. And you are".

Sherlock stared at him once more. Before he realized what he was doing, he replied, "Sherlock", and Castiel nodded.

"I am sorry you couldn't follow him but, as before stated, I wasn't paying attention".

Not only had Sherlock not drawn any attention to himself in the months before, but his targets had been unaware he followed them as well. And Castiel, a homeless man who just so happened to bump into him, could tell he had been following the drug dealer.

"I am no stranger to following other people" the man said as if he could read his thoughts, and Sherlock decided he had had enough.

"So – you are obviously homeless. You haven't been for long, though – you were thrown out by someone you cared for".

Castiel flinched, but his face didn't betray any anger he might feel, and Sherlock, uncharacteristically, felt something like shame coursing through his veins.

The homeless man was silent for a moment, before saying quietly, "You are right. I – He – told me I couldn't stay".

Sherlock swallowed, the thought that one day, when he returned, he might face the same, John telling him to –

No. He couldn't think like that. He had to find the drug dealer. Again. He shouldn't even still be talking to this man.

"You are alone too, aren't you? Otherwise, you wouldn't be here, at this time of the year. It is important for hu – other people."

Sherlock was not exactly the best at casual conversation, but he doubted anyone else would have inquired so matter-of-factly if he was alone.

He nodded once, hoping that he would realize Sherlock didn't want to talk about it, but Castiel simply continued.

"Did your friends tell you to leave as well?"

"I left" Sherlock answered, his voice calm. If Castiel felt he could ask the question, there was no reason for him to try and be polite. He really should leave. Why didn't he?

Perhaps because, although he didn't want to admit it to himself, he hadn't talked to anyone for a long time.

When he was young, that would have been his idea of heaven.

But now, after everything –

He cleared his throat, starting to turn around, when he felt a hand on his arm.

"I'm sorry".

He looked into Castiel's blue eyes and realized that the man was truly sorry, for what however, Sherlock couldn't imagine.

"I left. You have nothing to be sorry for."

"It hardly looks like it was your choice to leave".

"It was."

It had been. If he'd never played games with Moriarty, if he hadn't been so bored –

There was no use looking back now. There was no use wishing things had gone differently, because they hadn't.

Castiel tilted his head and studied Sherlock curiously.

"But you didn't want to leave."

"That doesn't matter. I left".

"You already said that."

Castiel was even more prone to stating the obvious than most of the idiots Sherlock had used to deal with on a daily basis. For some reason, though, it didn't annoy him as it had then.

He wondered absently if Castiel expected him to say he was sorry too, or something like that. He wouldn't put it past this strange man about whom he knew nothing, aside from the fact that he was homeless and lonely.

In a way, so was Sherlock.

He shook off the hand on his arm but remained standing where he was.

Castiel was shivering, but at the same time, he looked strangely oblivious to the cold.

Suddenly, Sherlock didn't see a homeless man who had run into him.

Instead, he saw a man who was just as lost as he was, more so even, because Sherlock at least had a goal, knew where he was going.

Castiel –

"Are you staying at a shelter?"

Castiel didn't answer. He didn't need to.

Sherlock turned around and left, sure that his intention was clear; he was proven right when he heard Castiel follow him.

They walked through the empty streets that were slowly being covered under the snow until they reached Sherlock's dirty motel.

As he had expected, there was no one at the reception, and if there had been, he wouldn't have cared that Sherlock was taking a homeless man into his room.

Sherlock always kept something to eat in his room, or an abandoned house, wherever he happened to stay, mostly as a reminder because he tended to forget to eat without –

He tended to forget.

Now, he was strangely glad that he did.

Once he had closed the door, Castiel sat down on the bed. Their eyes met again.

They hadn't talked since Sherlock had turned around on the street.

Sherlock didn't break the silence.

He simply put a loaf and bread and some jam (which he had bought because it was practical and quick, not because it reminded him of something) into Castiel's hands.

"Thank you".

It almost surprised him when Castiel spoke again.

He simply nodded and took out the file he kept on the drug dealer (and which he would, like the ones before it, destroy it once he had dealt with the organization).

"I have never had Christmas dinner before" Castiel stated, and Sherlock looked at him.

He looked so sincere, and the consulting detective had no doubt that he was telling the truth.

Sherlock had had many Christmas dinner, but only one he'd really enjoyed, last year, with –

"Really?" he forced himself to say. Maybe it would take his mind off things.

Castiel nodded.

"Before I was – " he stopped, unsure of how to continue, before ending with, "my family didn't celebrate Christmas".

Sherlock nodded again, because his family hadn't either, not truly, not when one considered "celebrating" spending time with the people one loved and cared for while being glad to be in their company.

"I do not think this can be classified as "dinner"" he eventually offered.

Castiel shrugged his shoulders.

"I haven't eaten for two days".

This man was so brutally honest that even Sherlock felt a little uncomfortable.

"Don't you have any other friends?" he asked.

Castiel shook his head.

"Most of them are dead."

When Sherlock didn't say anything, he added, "You don't seem surprised".

"I rarely am" the consulting detective replied. "And, anyway, I shouldn't have asked. I do appreciate you telling me the truth, but – "

"You don't have to say you are sorry. It's nice to be able to tell someone the truth – or at least part of it".

Castiel looked wistful, and Sherlock swallowed, because he recognized the emotion passing across his face. Ordinary people would have called it homesickness.

"I – " he found himself saying, although he didn't know why, "I do not expect to return to my friends. Even if I survive – I don't think they will take me back."

"Hu – people have often surprised me".

"I did some things" Sherlock announced honestly. "Things they might not be able to forgive."

"I did too. But that wasn't why – at least I don't think so." Castielc concentrated on his dinner for a few moments, before observing, "Sometimes forgiveness can find us in the most hopeless of circumstances."

He sounded like a priest, and Sherlock would have laughed, if he could.

"Not always."

"No" the other man answered thoughtfully, "not always".

Then, he unexpectedly added, "This is very kind of you, Sherlock. Thank you".

Sherlock didn't reply but concentrated on his file.

Eventually Castiel finished his dinner and went to sleep on the bed, realizing without being told that he was welcome to spend the night.

Sherlock, without being really aware of it, shot him glances now and then, to make sure he was alright.

Two hours later, he finally realized what he'd missed before, and knew he could find the drug dealer, get the information he needed and destroy this part of the web. He could probably leave the country within twenty-four hours.

He stood up and gathered his things before looking at Castiel, still asleep.

He bit his lip.

When Castiel awoke, he found a note informing him that the room was paid for another three days, as well as money.

Sherlock told himself that he'd only done it because the man had looked helpless and confused, even though he knew better.

He had made enough people suffer, and he was going to make even more people suffer, criminals or not.

He might as well give a stranger a happy Christmas.

**Author's note: I might be obsessed with character interactions.**

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


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